Ticking Time Bomb
by SylvieT
Summary: Post-ep for 4.15 Early Rollout which ends at Bloodlines. Brass tries to help Sara with her drinking problem and Grissom see the error of his ways. Could he have had a hand, albeit unvoluntarily, in helping GSR deal with these troubled times?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Someone in their review for ATIA said, "I miss the old show," and I do too, very much. I'm liking the new season so far, DB Russell and Morgan Brody too – what I've seen of it anyway as we're way behind in the UK and I've stopped watching online – but it's not the same and I miss the CSI of the good old days. Anyway, I caught a repeat of _Early Rollout_ from season 4 while doing the ironing the other night and Brass's scene with Sara in the break room gave birth to this. It's nothing we don't know already, but hey…

I hope you enjoy.

The dialogue for the first scene is taken straight from the episode itself, and isn't mine. It's just a reminder.

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><p>Ticking Time Bomb.<p>

* * *

><p>BRASS: How you feeling?<p>

SARA: Hey. What do you mean?

BRASS: Well, you were popping cough drops at the scene the other day a mile a minute.

SARA: I thought I was coming down with a cold.

BRASS: Ah. Yeah, I, uh... I understand colds. You know, back in Jersey when I was getting it from both ends, from my wife and my work, uh ... things started to get heavy. I started 'medicating'. 'Cure' my cold. And, um, and god forbid I had an early morning roll-out and I had that tell-tale breath, you know what I mean? So I would dodge my supe, and I started popping cough drops.

SARA: Huh.

BRASS: I mean, what I'm trying to say is that ... there's more problems than answers in the bottom of a bottle, believe me.

SARA: Yeah. Actually, I had a couple of beers with breakfast when I got off shift. And then I got called in.

BRASS: Just a couple?

SARA: Yeah.

BRASS: I'm just looking out for you.

* * *

><p>"This seat's taken?"<p>

Sara's heart sank. That's all she needed, more unsolicited advice from Brass, of all people. What did he know of her problems? She sighed and shook her head in reply to his question. She didn't look up. He pulled out the chair across from her and sat down on it.

"Got no one to go home to either," he said, or maybe asked she figured, and she hated that he knew that about her. God, how pathetic must she seem to all of them. She could feel his eyes on her and she didn't like the attention. His hand slid toward hers on the table, then withdrew before settling on the salt shaker. "Sara, I want to help you."

She looked up, met his gaze dead on. "I told you, I'm fine."

"Well, I don't believe you," he said, but not unkindly.

Her eyes averted to her empty cup and she swallowed. "Why?" There was a pause and she glanced up, disliking the pity she glimpsed in his eyes as he watched her.

"Because I know what you're going through."

"No, you don't."

"You want to talk about it?"

The softness in his tone made her look away. She shook her head then pushed to her feet, the chair scraping a little on the tiled floor. "I need to go."

"No, wait," he said urgently, reaching for her hand, keeping her half-seated. "Let me get you another cup." He loosened his grip on her hand and dipped his head, catching her eye. He tried a faint smile. "Please."

She sat back down. "How did you know where to find me?"

"I have my ways," he said, then sighed. "I followed you."

Her head snapped up with surprise. "You keeping tabs on me? What, you think I'm a drunk? Like you?"

He let go of her hand. "I'm not a drunk, Sara," he said, "I just did what a lot of people do; looked for a solution to my problems at the bottom of a bottle, and I didn't find it. I never was a drunk."

"Well, neither am I," she said curtly.

His hand moved to hers again and he patted it gently. "I know. I know you're not. But I also know that you're very unhappy."

Tears built in the corner of her eyes. She turned away, hating herself for being so transparent. Brass scanned his eyes around the diner, caught the waitress's attention and ordered more coffee. She came, served them, then left. Slowly, Brass pulled the corner of the lid off a milk jigger and emptied its content into his coffee. Then he took two sachets of sugar, tore the ends open and emptied them too. Next he stirred.

Sara couldn't help the curling of her lip, mocking and amused all at once. "I didn't take you for a white two-sugar coffee kind of guy."

"Well, now you know," he said, "But this one's not for me." He looked up and after putting the plastic stirrer down swapped his cup for hers. He flashed an awkward smile. "It's for you."

"I like mine black."

"Humour me," he said, taking another milk jigger and repeating the procedure. "Listen, Sara, I'm sorry. I know my words earlier came out all wrong and that I must have sounded―"

"Judgmental?"

He smiled. "Yeah, well, I was going to say, an ass, but that sounds better. It's only because I recognise the signs, and I care." He paused, both with his words and with the stirring of his coffee. "You're a smart girl. You know drinking beer for breakfast isn't going to make you feel better."

She sighed. "I don't – drink beer for breakfast." Her shoulders lifted. "I just…I recently found out that…Grissom recommended Nick for the Lead CSI promotion. I'm not supposed to know, but I do. Don't ask me how I know," she added when he opened his mouth, "please."

"Grissom must have had his reasons, providing your…source is correct, of course."

"It is," she said, and sighed. "I'm more experienced than him. I…put in more hours. I come in on my days off. I have a better solve rate than him, but it's still not good enough. I'm still not good enough."

Brass opened his mouth then closed it. "This isn't just about this promotion, is it?" he asked, then, "Do you even want it?"

"Of course, I _want_ it. What kind of question is that? And I'd be damn good at it too!"

"So would Nick, I'm sure."

Sara clamped her mouth shut, her hands angrily clenching into fists on the table. Of course Nick would be good at it too, but that was beside the point. "Yeah, well, it doesn't matter now."

"Grissom must have had good reasons," Brass repeated, "Maybe you should ask―"

"Stop defending him," she snapped, her voice too loud, for several people nearby turned their heads toward her. She refocused back onto the cooling coffee in front of her.

"I'm not," Brass said in an even voice, "But maybe you should ask him. Ask him why he chose Nick over you."

Sara stood up on shaky legs. "Maybe I will," she said, and flashed an uncomfortable smile. "Thanks for the coffee."

"Sara, sit down," he bid quietly. "Please, sit down." She didn't, but she didn't leave either. "Maybe Grissom feels the same way about you as you do about him," he added so quietly that she wasn't sure she heard him right. "Have you thought about that?"

She looked right then left before hesitantly sitting back down. She blew out a breath and tried calming her racing heart. Picked up the cup, but she couldn't stop her hand from shaking so she put it back down. "Is it that obvious?" she asked, not daring to meet his gaze.

Brass sighed, but didn't reply. "The way I see it," he said when she finally lifted her eyes to his face, "and you know Grissom as well as I do, better even – but the man's got no idea about how you feel."

"I think he does."

Her words left him stunned. "Then, maybe he feels he needs to keep his distance because he's boss. You got to have it out with him, get it out in the open once and for all…"

Sara's shake of the head was firm and resolute. "No way."

"Why not? What do you risk?"

"Rejection?" she wanted to reply, but didn't say the word out loud, "Again."

"As it is, it's eating you up inside," he went up, his tone compassionate, "A ticking bomb, and it's only a matter of time until it goes…_boom_ in your face."

Sara's hand moved to her face and she rubbed her eyes. "Why are you doing this?"

"I'd hate for you to throw your career down the pan, and your life with it, that's all. You wouldn't be the first one. Besides," he added, waiting for her look up to say, "I like you. You're a good kid." He smiled, and she couldn't help smiling back. "Come on, drink your coffee, and then let's go to bed."

Sara's face lit up and she laughed. "Thank you."

"And remember," he said, serious again as he took a sip of his coffee, "Grissom's the ass here, not you."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I know I originally posted this short story as a one-shot, but I felt Brass would want to have a chat to Grissom too, especially now that he knows the latter is the cause of Sara's troubles. Writing this story has got me wondering; we know –well, we think we know – that by season 7 Brass was in the know about GSR, but what if he knew from the start? And what if he had a hand in getting them together, albeit involuntary? So many ways it could have happened.

Have a nice Easter!

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><p>BRASS: Hey, what are you doing after work?<p>

GRISSOM: More work.

BRASS: You've photos of Laurel Trent's jewellery?

GRISSOM: Yeah, two-carat diamond earrings, ruby necklace, diamond and sapphire bracelet, lady's gold Rolex.

BRASS: The insurance company says it's worth somewhere north of two mil. I got every pawn shop in town on the lookout. What?

GRISSOM: You know that feeling you get when you just can't quite put your finger on something?

BRASS: What can't you put your finger on besides the clock-out button?

* * *

><p>Watching from the open doorway Brass gave a weary sigh and wondered how he was going to get his friend to open his eyes and acknowledge what was staring him in the face. The latter needed to put his house in order, and soon, before it blew up in his face and there was nothing left worth salvaging.<p>

Grissom had never been the gregarious type, not by anyone's standards anyway, but the gradual shift in personality over the past few years was obvious. Gone was the cocky scientist, in its stead an almost taciturn individual.

He'd put it down to being given the new and very burdensome responsibility of managing the unit and then to his growth as supervisor, but now he couldn't help wondering if it had more to do with the arrival of a pretty brunette in the team, a friend of his whom he trusted. Was there more to their relationship than met the eye? Brass had never had cause to ask himself that question before, but now the answer was plainly obvious.

He wasn't the meddling type – each to his own, as far as he was concerned – but he couldn't stand by and watch helplessly while Sara slowly continued self-destructing. He'd noticed the signs a while back already and thought she would pull herself out of whatever funk she found herself in.

But she hadn't, and instead he'd witnessed with growing concern her gradual descent into…into what, he thought glumly, despair and depression? Alcohol dependency? He'd tried to play down his fears when they'd been talking earlier, but there was no denying the obvious. And more tellingly maybe, for someone usually so proud and private, she hadn't.

And there sat the cause of her misery and gloom, oblivious and ignorant, and true to his word, pushing paperwork.

"What are you doing here?" Grissom asked, not lifting his eyes from the report he was half-way through filling in. "I thought you went home hours ago."

"I was in the neighbourhood and saw the light."

Grissom gave a scoff, but still didn't look up, his pen moving fast across the page. "Well, I haven't got time."

A good smack around the head, that might help, he thought. Well, maybe not Grissom, but it would certainly help him vent some of his frustrations. But he needed to play it cool and tread carefully or Grissom would simply close up like a clam, and we wouldn't want that now, would we?

"I thought you'd be gone by now, you know, it being the last day of the World Series of Poker, and all." He paused for effect. "Sam Farha lit his cigarette yet?"

The corner of Grissom's mouth twitched up in a smirk. He lowered his pen and glanced up over the top of his glasses. "I told you. I got work to do." The half-smile lingered on. "I'm recording it."

Brass's face creased with disbelief. He opened his mouth then shut it quickly, finding no wit or cynicism in his repertoire to counter _that_ revelation.

"Anyway, you're here…why?" Grissom asked, suddenly baffled.

Brass gave a nervous smile then scanned his eyes up and down the corridor before venturing deeper inside Grissom's office. "I'm just…well…I'm…a little concerned, that's all."

Grissom's hand lifted, stopping him mid-track. "I know, and I appreciate your concern. I just got to finish this, then I'm off, I promise. I got tonight off anyway. I'll catch up on my sleep then."

"Oh, well, that's good to know, but…that's not why I'm here." He paused and sighed, then whipped round to swing the door shut. "Anything I should know?"

Grissom's smile morphed into a frown. "About what? The Trent case? I'm just about to sign off on it."

"No. No, not the Trent case." His shoulder lifted in what he hoped was a casual manner. He took a seat across the desk. "I'd heard…you know…word on the street is that a new position opened up at CSI?"

"Ah," Grissom said with surprise, "yeah." He rubbed his forehead and refocused on his paperwork. The pen resumed its melodic dance on the page. "Lead CSI."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Who's going for it?"

"Nick and Sara," Grissom replied absent-mindedly.

"And?"

Pausing Grissom lifted confounded eyes toward Brass. "It's…confidential. Besides, what is it to you?"

Brass aimed for casualness. "I heard the guys talk about it, that's all. I got curious."

Grissom stared back with suspicion, so unwilling to show his hand Brass stood up and moved to the low shelves nearby. Frowning he picked what looked like a rabbit's skull, and made a show of examining it.

"Jim, why are you here?" Grissom asked, the puzzlement evident in his tone, "And don't tell me you've suddenly developed an interest in anthropology."

Brass put down the skull and turned back toward his friend, this time aiming for a casual smile. "No." He clenched and unclenched his fingers. "I'm concerned this…promotion is creating a little animosity."

"Animosity? Nah. Friendly rivalry, maybe but that's normal, and coveted."

Brass gave out a nervous laugh. "Not between your guys," he said at last, causing Grissom's frown to deepen even more.

"Jim, you're going to have to spell it out for me, because I don't get it."

Brass's sigh was long and dejected. Tread carefully, he told himself, and don't reveal more than you need to. "Okay, then maybe my concern is less to do with the promotion, and more to do with your feelings for Sara. There, I've said it."

Grissom swallowed. "My what?"

Brass kept his stare level. "Your feelings for Sara," he repeated quietly.

Grissom's eyes slid off his face. He hitched himself in his chair, removed his glasses and tossed them on the pile of documents on his desk. Then he pressed his eyes with his fingers, the muscles in his jaw twitching. The man was rattled, something Brass hadn't seen – or caused – very often. At last, he found his voice. "That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" Brass's tone was even, unthreatening. "Listen, Gil―"

"You got this all wrong," Grissom cut in heatedly. He clamped his jaw before quickly turning away.

"You could have fooled me."

Grissom looked up and tried a smile which fooled no one. "What are you talking about?" he said, and this time Brass heard the resignation in his friend's voice.

"That stunt you pulled with Lurie in the interrogation room?"

"What about it?"

"You tell me," Brass said kindly.

Grissom stood up, moved to the tall shelves on his right, pretending to examine the exhibits there.

"Gil, I was there, remember? I know. I _know_. It doesn't take a genius to know who you were talking about. But it's okay. You're human; you have a history together―"

Grissom whipped round. His eyes met Brass's dead on, and Brass saw that in those few seconds Grissom had slipped his mask back on, the emotion gone from his eyes, his face. "The man was going to walk," Grissom said in an even tone, his shoulder lifting in a casual manner. "He was guilty. I was trying a new approach on him."

Brass stared back with disbelief. "Is that what you call it?" he said, exasperated. "Sounded like you knew first-hand what you were talking about."

Grissom's eyes were narrowed, challenging. "I don't see what it's got to do with you. My private life, the way I carry out interrogations or the running of this unit – none of it's your concern."

Brass's hands rose by his side. "I'm your friend, Gil. I'm just looking out for you," he said, echoing words he'd spoken earlier to Sara.

"I don't need looking out for."

How could you help someone who refused to see what stared them in the face, even after you spelt it out for them? Brass's nod was slow, acknowledging defeat, however infuriatingly. But what else had he expected from Grissom?

"I got work to do, so if you don't mind…" Grissom said, vaguely indicating the door as he resumed his seat behind the desk and picked up his glasses.

"Okay," Brass said, "But don't say you didn't see it coming."

Grissom's head snapped up, his frown deep. "See what coming?"

Brass didn't reply. Giving his head a slow shake he turned on his heels, headed out, but stopped at the door. He took a slow breath, then glanced over his shoulder at Grissom. He had the man's attention now, but he wouldn't tell him about Sara. It wasn't his place, especially not if it cost her more in the end.

"Go home," he said, dejected, "Go watch your poker."

"Yeah, I will." The CSI's tone was curt, final. He picked up the next report on the pile. "As soon as I'm done here."

Brass sighed and opened the door. He'd tried his best and now he could begin to comprehend the reasons behind Sara's breakdown. The man could really be an infuriating ass sometimes, but sadly for Sara there was no choosing who you fell for.

"When the proverbial hits the fan," he said, "don't say I didn't try to warn you."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: So, it would seem I have a little more to tell. I'm thinking that there will be one more chapter after this one, taking the story to Bloodlines. Well, that's the plan anyway.

The two following scenes are taken directly from the show, and aren't mine. The first one is from 4.16 _Getting Off_ and the second one from 4.22 _No More Bets_.

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><p>SARA: Samples from your suspect. There's nothing but a few track marks. No defensive wounds, no bruising. Junkies usually bruise if you breathe on them too hard. She is a pile of twigs, very frail.<p>

GRISSOM looks at SARA.

SARA: What?

GRISSOM: I haven't seen you for a while, have I?

SARA: You see me every day.

* * *

><p>SARA: Nick said the budget for the promotion was cut.<p>

GRISSOM: 240 inches- 20 feet.

SARA: He also said you recommended him.

GRISSOM: I did.

SARA: You said you didn't have a problem with me.

GRISSOM: I don't. I thought that Nick was the best candidate for the position.

SARA: Why?

GRISSOM: Because he didn't care whether he got the job or not.

SARA: That's a stupid reason.

GRISSOM: We've got blood.

* * *

><p>Brass stopped at the door, his eyes fixed on the brunette sitting alone at the bar. Her head was down, shoulders slumped forward, as she lifted the bottle to her mouth. He checked the time on the clock behind the bar and shook his head: 9.30 a.m. Not that he was keeping tabs. He thought things had been looking up for her in the last few weeks, but clearly he'd been wrong.<p>

Quietly he slid himself up onto the stool next to her. She looked up straight ahead, and they shared a long look in the mirror across from them behind the bar. She didn't even seem surprised to see him there, just very sad, lonely and resigned.

"Don't," she said, her voice low, a little gruff.

"Don't what? Care?"

Her eyes averted and she didn't reply. "How did you find me this time? You following me? Tracking my car?"

"If you don't want to be found," he replied, his tone harsher than he would have liked, "choose a place further away from PD. I saw your car when I drove past."

"Nick chose the bar."

"Well, that makes it alright then." He swivelled round on the stool, making a show of scanning the main room for signs of the CSI. "Still here, is he?" When she didn't reply, he glanced at her. "You two out…celebrating?"

A wry smile formed on her lips. "Something like that."

Brass turned back with a sigh and clasped his hands together on the counter in front of him, searching for the right words to express his concern without sounding pompous or judgemental. "Listen—"

"It's official," she cut in, raising her beer at him before taking a swig. "Nick got the promotion."

Brass's heart sank at the news; he'd really hoped Grissom would have changed his mind about that. "I'm sorry to hear it."

"You want to know what's funny?" she went on softly. "It got cut." She turned toward him and met his gaze. He didn't like what he saw; the forlorn look in her eyes, the downward curve of her smile sent shivers down his spine. "The position got cut."

"Yeah?"

She raised her bottle in front of her, studying it intently as though it held the key to her problems. "All this, for nothing. And I still feel like shit."

"Sara―"

"Don't. Please, don't pity me." Her mouth pulled into a pained grimace, and she brought the beer to her mouth.

Watching her sink deeper and deeper into wretchedness was heart-wrenching but how could he stop it? How could he make her see that this wasn't the way?

"And that's not even the worst of it," she continued with a cold, empty laugh, bringing back his focus, as she downed the last of the beer. She blinked as she stared at the bottle as though not quite believing she'd already drunk it all, and then raised it toward the barman at the opposite end, motioning for a fresh one.

Sara's empty Miller was swapped for a fresh one. The barman caught his eye, and Brass shook his head in reply. "Actually," he said, as the man turned away, "We'll have two large coffees. Black, and strong."

The ensuing smirk that formed on Sara's face wasn't pretty. She picked up the bottle, once again bringing it to her lips, this time taking a long swig of it, and he knew she was deliberately acting out, challenging him to make her stop.

"You know what?" he said, temper rising despite himself, "That's not a side of you I like. I prefer the other Sara, the one that gives a damn about herself, and those who care about her."

"Well, the other Sara can't take it anymore," she snapped darkly.

"This can't be all Grissom," he exclaimed, exasperated, "Sara, come on, talk to me."

"Leave it alone. Some things are better left buried."

He fell into silence, considering her words for a moment, deciding it wasn't worth a confrontation about. Whatever other troubles she had Grissom's behaviour had obviously brought them to the forth, but they weren't his main concern. He fixed his stare onto her trembling hand around the bottle.

"So, what's the worst?" he asked after a moment, referring to her earlier unfinished statement, as he looked up to her profile face.

Sara's fake-bravado all but disappeared, but she didn't meet his eye. Tears welled in the corner of her eyes as her chin trembled. "He said I wanted the job too much," she said, dejected and defeated.

Brass sighed. "That's tough."

"Tough?" she snapped, locking eyes with him. There was fire in them, fire and fight, and he couldn't help thinking that that was better than tears. Let her take her anger out on him, it was better out than in. "It's bullshit, more like. The man's just full of crap."

Brass pursed his mouth thoughtfully. "I'll second that."

"Well, yeah, fat lot of good it's doing me."

He couldn't help his smile. The barman returned with their coffees, silently setting them down. Brass gave him a nod of thanks before pushing one toward Sara. "Black," he said, "See, I remembered."

Sara looked over at him, and he smiled, his shoulder lifting in a mild shrug as he picked up his own cup and brought it to his lips.

"How much have you had to drink?" he asked, keeping his tone even, non-judgemental.

"I'm off shift," she said, but there was no anger in her tone anymore, "off tonight too." She picked up her cup, wincing as she took a sip. "I had a couple with Nick, and then this one."

"Looks like more to me."

She glanced over at him. "You're not my father."

"No, I'm your friend."

"Are you?" Her lips trembled and she turned away. "I can do what I want."

"Not if I have anything to do with it. Not if you want to keep your job." His voice was soft, slightly coaxing. "I thought you'd been doing better recently."

Sara's sigh was fraught as she fought her tears. She didn't reply.

"I mean, it looked like you two were getting along okay, from where I was standing." Sara looked up, staring at him blankly. "The Logos case?"

"Yeah, well, appearances can be deceptive." She returned her attention to her coffee and he was glad he was making a little headway.

"Have you two spoken?"

"Sure," she said lightly, "we talk every day."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"Then no, we haven't talked. Not that it's any of your business."

He smiled at her twitchiness. "You sure know how to pick them, don't you?"

His quip had the opposite effect to what he intended. Sara's head snapped up, angry, challenging, ready to bite his head off, and relenting he raised both hands to his side, surrendering. "I'm sorry," he said quickly, "That was below the belt. But, Sara, you got to understand I'm only―"

"Looking out for me. Yeah, I get it." She blinked hard, her jaw setting to stop it quivering. "You don't get to pick who you love," she said, then looked up, her shoulder lifting pitifully.

"No, you don't," he said, and in that moment he saw Ellie. It was Ellie sat there with all her problems and not Sara, and he couldn't just sit back and let her screw her life up that way Ellie had. Her pushing him away was a natural, self-preservation instinct, her drinking a call for help and not so serious yet that she was beyond help. Or so he prayed to God. "Did you ever meet Ellie?" he asked her softly.

Her gaze snapped up, narrowed, surprised by the change of tack. She shook her head.

"She went from being this happy, bright child to a sullen teenager and a junkie and worse, and I never saw it coming. Not that I was there to see it." He shrugged and sighed. "I made a lousy father, Sara, a lousy father, and…anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I want to help you before it's too late."

"Jim, you're blowing this way out of proportion. I mean, I recognise I could be handling stuff better, but it's only a few beers with breakfast. And not every day. Want to make me walk the line to prove it?"

"I know someone," he said, ignoring her attempt at levity, "not with PD. Someone who can help, someone you could talk to who…would know the right thing to say."

She sighed and seemed to consider his words for a moment. "You're not doing that bad a job of it yourself," she said. "What happened to Ellie isn't your fault. Kids have worst pasts and turn out good."

He looked up, a smile breaking when he saw the fond look in her eyes. His hand reached for hers on the counter. "You're a good kid, but I'm supposed to be doing the cheering here, remember?" His smile broadened devilishly. "You want me to talk to him?"

Fear and panic filled her eyes. "No! God, no, Jim, please, don't. I'm embarrassed enough as it is."

"Don't be. Not on my account anyway. And you know your secret's safe with me, for as long as it needs to, but if the day comes and you need me to deck him one…"

A wide grin spread on her face. "I'll know who to call."

She picked up her cup and finished it, and he did the same, wincing as he got to the bitter end.

"Let me give you a ride home," he said, indicating to the barman to bring the check.

"It's okay," she said, pushing to her feet and grabbing her purse off the floor. She straightened up, then paused and closed her eyes, her hand reaching out to the counter, gripping it tight as she steadied herself. "I must have stood up too quickly," she said with a weak smile.

"Last thing you want is to get done for DUI," he said with concern. "Come on, don't be an ass about it, you're on my way home."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: The first scene is taken directly from 4.23 _Bloodlines_, and isn't mine, as isn't some of the dialogue in the latter part of the chapter between Grissom and the officer I have called Jenkins. You'll recognise it, I'm sure. I know I said that this chapter would be the last, but it's not. I couldn't leave it there; you'll see why soon.

Thanks for all the reviews and the interest in this story; I never would have thought, hence the original one-shot only. I'm really enjoying myself writing this, and rewatching the end of season 4 and reading old episodes transcripts. Can I publicly thank Crimelab . NL, whoever they are, for having all the CSI episodes transcripts online? I couldn't do it without them!

Here goes, and please leave a review. Have a great weekend!

* * *

><p>SARA: What?<p>

GRISSOM: How many vacation days do you have on the books?

SARA: About ... ten weeks, I guess. Why?

GRISSOM: I think you should take a week or two.

SARA: I-I'm still on the case. I just didn't do the interview for once in my life. When was the last time you took vacation? Never, right?

GRISSOM: Okay.

* * *

><p>Double scotch in hand, Brass leaned back in his chair and carried on reading over Todd Coombs' final confession, his head shaking with disbelief every so often at the peculiarity of the case. How many more atrocious rapes and murders would the cold-blooded bastard have gotten away with had Linley Parker not broken free from his first attack? Who would have thought it possible, he marveled again, two sets of DNA in the same person, the perfect cover for any crime. Well, almost.<p>

Needing to calm his nerves, he brought the glass to his mouth and took a small sip, his eyes taking a distant turn as his mind drifted to thoughts of Sara. She hadn't handled the case well at all, and he worried about her. Was she in a bar now, drinking to dull her pain? He took another slow swig of his drink and shook his head, the irony of the situation not lost on him. But he knew his limits, whereas Sara was still finding hers.

His desk phone rang, startling him, and he set the file down on the desk, automatically reaching forward for the phone. "Brass," he replied, absent-mindedly.

"Sir? Dispatch here. Officer Jenkins is on the radio for you. Says it's urgent."

"Jenkins?" he said, straightening up in his seat and putting the glass down. His body became tense with foreboding.

"Yes, from patrol."

"Put him through."

After a slight pause he heard static on the line and then the sound of heavy traffic in the background. Then the officer spoke. "Sir? Jenkins here. I'm on the corner of West Russell and South Decatur doing routine traffic stops and I've just pulled over…"

Brass's eyes closed wearily, and he let out a long sigh, not needing to hear the officer's next words to know who and what it was about. Sara had just found her limit. His free hand came up to his face, and he wiped his eyes. He'd seen it coming, oh, god, he had, but he couldn't search every bar in town every time she had a tough case or Grissom was being a jerk.

"What did she blow?" he asked, forlorn.

".09."

"But that's just under," Brass exclaimed, bewildered.

"Not anymore, Sir."

Brass let out a long breath, nodding his head into the phone. "They only just lowered the limit. It's her first time, carelessness on her part," he said, though for whose benefit he wasn't sure.

"I know. What do you want me to do?" the officer asked.

"You haven't booked her yet?"

There was another pause. "No, Sir." He could sense the officer's hesitation. "She asked I called you."

Brass stood up and began pacing around his desk. He pulled at the knot of his tie, undoing the top button. Part of him wondered if getting caught and looking at a charge of DUI would be the wake-up call she needed, but then she'd have to pay the consequences work-wise, and that wouldn't be so good. Also it would serve to validate her already self-destructive behaviour, possibly propelling her further down her downward spiral with worse consequences.

"Listen, I know Sara," the officer went on before he could make up his mind, "I mean, she's one of our own, right? I'm happy to…overlook it, give her a slap on the wrist this time, but I thought I'd better check first, you know…"

"That was good of you."

"I'm still going to have to inform her supervisor at CSI, though."

"Absolutely." Brass checked his watch; 10 am already but he was sure Grissom would still be behind his desk signing off on Todd Coombs' case. "You do that, Jenkins. It's his mess anyway, he can clear it up." He paused. "She listening in?"

"No. She's sitting in the back of the cruiser."

Brass considered his next words very carefully. He knew she'd hate him for it, and that maybe in doing what he was about to do was betraying her trust, but how else were they ever going to talk, properly talk and confront their feelings for one another? He had tried to help her, but only Grissom could do that now. It was time, Brass thought, time.

"Tell her you couldn't get a hold of me. Tell her you tried everything. Then bring her in to PD and call Grissom. You'll find him at the crime lab. If for whatever reasons he can't make it, let me know and I'll take care of her. And, thanks for the heads-up. Oh, but don't mention you spoke to me to Grissom either, alright?"

"10-4, Sir."

Brass hung the phone with a sad shake of the head. Please, let Grissom do the right thing, he thought, wearily slumping down into his chair. Let him see how his behaviour, his indifference were ruining her life. He downed the rest of his scotch and picked up the Coombs' confession again, then went through the motions of doing his work while waiting. For what, he wasn't quite sure.

* * *

><p>Grissom was at his desk, reviewing all the evidence against Todd Coombs, ready to sign off on the case, when the phone rang. Automatically he picked it up and brought it to his ear. "Grissom," he said, his eyes still intent on the report.<p>

"Sir, it's Officer Jenkins here, calling from PD. I understand you're Sara Sidle's supervisor at CSI?"

"Yes," he said, his heartbeat quickening as a sense of foreboding came over him. He removed his glasses, listening as the officer spoke. And the more he did, explaining what had happened, the more Grissom's heart sank. What if she had gotten hurt, he couldn't help thinking? What if Jenkins' call was to announce worse news? The thought didn't bear thinking about. "Is she all right?" he asked finally, his voice soft with concern.

"Yes," the officer replied. "Yes, she is."

His eyes closed and he pinched the bridge of his nose as relief flooded him. "I'll be right there," he said, and hung up the phone. He couldn't get there fast enough.

The drive to PD went by in a blur, his mind reeling with the possibilities of what had happened, of what could have happened. He parked in the first available spot, not caring that it was the under-sheriff's, jogged across the lot to the main entrance, only slowing down to let a couple of people out of the building. Quickly he went to the front desk and showed his CSI badge clipped to the waistband of his pants**,** saying he'd a call and that Officer Jenkins was waiting to see him. When told that Jenkins was in the dispatch room he quickly pushed off the desk, striding down the corridor, willing his heartbeat to calm.

When he got level with Brass's office he slowed down. The blinds were open, the door too, the captain at his desk, bent over files, looking troubled and distracted. His jacket lay on the back of the chair. His tie was gone too, discarded over the top of it, the shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A tumbler stood empty near the phone. Without realising, Grissom stopped moving and watched through the plate-glass as Brass blinked hard a few times before rubbing a weary hand over his eyes and down his face. Then he looked up, staring straight at him.

Grissom held his friend's stare long enough to see a flitting look of surprise mixed in with relief cross his face, a look all too soon replaced by what looked like disappointment, resentment and dejection all at once. There was a warning there too, and Grissom knew he would heed it. He looked off at a point in the distance. There was no doubt as to whom the good captain blamed for Sara's demise, their chat a few weeks previously still very clear in his mind.

Sara had been burning out and he hadn't picked up the signs until Brass had mentioned it, until it was too late. Had what happened to Linley Parker been the last straw? The case had hit everyone hard, Catherine more than anyone else and he didn't see her turning to the bottle for comfort. But Catherine and Sara were two very different women. Catherine had a daughter and her family around her to help take the edge off. All Sara had, was her work and no one waiting at home.

A deep sense of helplessness filled him. Sighing he refocused his thoughts then flicked his gaze back to Brass who was still watching him. His shoulder lifted in a helpless manner, and Brass gave a shake of the head as slow, disbelieving and reproachful as he'd ever seen from him. "Your mess," Brass's eyes told him, "You clear it up."

This…mess Sara had gotten herself into wasn't his doing, was it? How, when recently he'd tried to be nicer to her, kinder and more attentive, attempting to rekindle the friendship and easy working relationship they used to have? He'd forgotten how easy and comfortable it was being paired with her, how effortlessly they worked alongside the other. The Logos and Pharaoh's Fever cases a couple of weeks previously cases in point, and he hadn't realised how far apart they had grown until he tried to get close to her again. They'd joked, and she'd smiled and laughed. It was like the old days. She'd seemed fine since.

Brass held his eyes a moment longer before lowering them back to his work. Grissom gave a small nod of acknowledgement then took a moment to gather his thoughts as he went in search of Officer Jenkins, finding him coffee in hand casually chatting to one of the dispatchers. Jenkins's professional persona returned, his features becoming serious as soon as he caught sight of Grissom. He dumped the coffee, closing the distance to him.

"Gil Grissom," Grissom said, needlessly for he and Jenkins had crossed paths in the past, "from the Crime lab. How is she?"

"She's doing okay," the officer replied, motioning for Grissom to follow him through the dispatch room to the waiting room. "I made her a coffee. I hope it's okay."

"Thank you."

"She was lucky she wasn't on the Strip," Jenkins went on as they walked, "That's Highway Patrol's jurisdiction. She blew .09. Technically she's over, but they just lowered the limit, so we cut her a break and didn't book her. But we did have to call the supervisor."

_We_? Grissom wondered, thinking of Brass as they rounded a corner into the waiting room. Jenkins stopped at the door, needlessly pointing toward a lone Sara sitting on a chair with her back to him. His heart nearly stopped at the feeling of doom that permeated the room.

"Well, thank you," he said, finding his voice. He gave the officer a nod, his eyes on Sara. "I appreciate the courtesy."

"No problem."

Jenkins left, and without hesitation Grissom walked over to Sara, sitting down next to her. Staring straight out in front of her, she didn't acknowledge his arrival, yet he knew from the slight tensing of her shoulders that she knew he was there. The coffee the officer had made lay on a side table nearby, untouched. His heart was so full, so heavy as he looked at her. Her pain, her misery was so palpable now, and heartbreaking to witness. Why hadn't he seen it, felt it before?

He didn't know what to say that wouldn't sound trivial, contrite or awkward, or worse judgmental. So he simply reached over and took her hand, clasping it tightly. It was cold, hard and bony in his, and yet it felt so good, so familiar. He didn't want to let it go. Sara didn't return the squeeze, but she didn't pull her hand away either, which he figured was a good sign, and a start. For what, he wasn't sure.

"Come on," he said, "I'll take you home."

Sara's head lowered, with shame maybe, embarrassment certainly, but she didn't resist him as he tugged her hand, gently pulling her up to her feet.

* * *

><p>AN: One more, you agree?


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: We all know GSR didn't get 'established' until season 5, whether it happened after _Nestling Dolls_, _Committed_ or _Grave Danger_, or more gradually during that time is anyone's guess. It took Grissom a long time, but he did get there in the end and what fun it was to watch. Keep that in mind as you're reading, however frustrating it gets.

So, this is definitely the last chapter. ;-) Thank you for reading and reviewing, and putting the story in your favourites, those of you who have done. More from me soon, no doubt!

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><p>"Second one on the left," she said as he pulled the car into her apartment lot, indicating a free parking spot with a jut of the head, "Next to the Jetta."<p>

Grissom gave an inward sigh, saddened at the fact that these were the first words they had spoken since leaving PD. Several times his mouth had opened, but every time the words to express his concern had eluded him. Silently he eased the car in what he assumed to be her reserved space and cut the engine. His hand remained on the key, his eyes averted to the steering wheel as he wondered how best to proceed from there.

What should he do? What should he say? Should he just drop her off, leaving her to make her own way upstairs? She seemed sober enough to him now, very calm, subdued even. Maybe too subdued, he worried, easing a look in her direction. She sat warily, tiredly, and incredibly still, with her jaw clamped and her hands flat on her lap, blindly staring out in front of her through the windshield, as though she was holding her breath.

Again he sighed at the helplessness of the situation. He felt unnerved, out of his comfort zone – way out. Maybe he should see her to her door, make sure she got there safely. Besides, he'd need to talk to her, tell her about what action he would have to take as regards work. Slowly he turned, shifting onto his seat until he faced her.

"I suppose I should thank you," she said in a low voice, the bitter resentment in her tone startling him. She turned her head toward him, briefly meeting his eyes, and his heart clenched at the deep sorrow he glimpsed there. He was reaching for her hand on her lap when she snatched it away to grab her purse. Wordlessly, she opened the car door and let herself out, quickly crossing the lot to the front door. She couldn't get away from him and her shame fast enough.

He had a choice, he figured as she worked her key into the lock. He could leave now and cut his losses – clearly she didn't want him there and the work ramifications could wait – or stay. There was no choice, he realised, breathlessly catching up with her in the lobby just as the elevator doors slid open.

"You've done your duty as my supervisor," she said, stepping dead centre into the cab. She pressed the button to her floor and turned toward him, her eyes darting all over the place, except to meet his. "Now you can go." She paused, and he could tell how much it cost her to say her next words. "Thank you."

Before the elevator doors could slide shut he reached out his hand, stopping them. "I'd…like to come up," he said, the words uttered before he could consider the consequences, "if that's okay. I'd like to speak with you." Met with her indecision he dipped his head, meeting her lowered gaze, "Please. It won't take long."

She sighed, silently stepping aside to make room for him in the small cab. As they rode, shoulder to shoulder, he thought about what he was going to say to her, but couldn't settle on anything meaningful. Like two strangers they exited the lift, and soon she was unlocking the front door to her apartment. She went in, and gingerly he followed. The drapes were pulled, casting the room in a dim light. He stopped at the kitchen counter, watching as she restlessly moved about the small space, discarding her purse and jacket on the arm of the couch before moving to the window.

She pulled the drapes open, sunlight rushing in causing her to turn her face away with a wince. He was openly staring at her and her eyes averted. She blinked and brought a shaky hand to her lowered face, and he couldn't take his eyes off it because up to now he hadn't noticed how truly on edge she was. His coming up was a mistake, he could see it now. She was nervous and scared, like a small animal in a cage backing into a corner from a dangerous predator. She saw _him_ as the predator, and the thought made him sad.

He watched her uncertainly for a moment before peeling his eyes away, making a show of casually looking around the room. He took in the layout of the room, the small desk with open forensic books, the laptop and police scanner. Then his eyes slowly moved to the tall shelves on its left with rows upon rows of books, pictures and art work, the walls, soft furnishings, warm and so very Sara, and he felt comfortable there even though he'd never been to her apartment before. And he realised then that in the four years she'd been in Vegas he'd never once taken the time to find out where she lived, how she lived, and he found that he regretted it profoundly.

"I know what you're thinking," she said, brazening it out.

"And what am I thinking?" he asked softly, puzzled.

"I'm not a drunk." Her voice was quiet, a whisper. "I'm not a drunk," she repeated, looking up, the emotion in her eyes tugging at his heart. "I just needed to take the edge off."

He considered her words, kept his voice even, unthreatening, non-judgmental. "You're still getting nightmares?"

She seemed surprised that he remembered. She didn't reply, but he saw the answer in her eyes.

"I worry about you, Sara," he said, stepping toward her, stopping when she took a step back. He sighed and paused, his hand twitching by his side. "I should have picked up on the signs, I'm sorry."

She began to pace. "What signs?"

"I think you're burning out, Sara. I've seen it before, many times. What we do, day in, day out, it's tough. It gets to you. Sooner or later, it gets to us all."

She stopped pacing, fixed him with a hard stare. "It doesn't get to you."

"Oh, yes, it does," he wanted to say, "Every day," but he didn't. This wasn't about him, it was about Sara, and about how much pain she was in. "I was serious before, when I said you needed to take some time off. You need a break."

"I'm not…burning out," she said, decisive. "I don't need a break from the job. The job I can handle."

_The job is all I got_, she didn't say, but he heard it in the despair in her voice, in the silent, _if you take my job away from me I have nothing._ And then the thought occurred that if she was scared it wasn't because she'd been caught drunk driving but because she could lose her job over it. As her boss the decision was his; he had the power to decide her future and happiness. He remained silent, waiting for her to finish her thoughts and say what it was she couldn't handle, but she didn't, simply lapsing into silence.

"Then, why?" he asked softly, when the silence grew too heavy, even for him.

"Why, what?" she asked, a trace of bewilderment in her tone. "I don't have a problem, Grissom. I told you."

She walked past him over to the kitchen, and he followed her with his eyes, watching as she opened a cupboard and pulled out a glass, which she filled up to the brim with tap water. She whipped round toward him so fast that water spilt over the edge and over her shaking hand. She didn't seem to notice, and she didn't drink from the glass either. She just shrugged and kept eye contact brief, flitting as she spoke.

"It was nothing. I…went out for a drink with the guys to wind down, take the edge off the case." Her arms opened as she searched for words, water spilling again and nervously she set the glass down on to the counter. "We had a few beers. I wasn't hungry so I didn't have anything to eat. I underestimated how much I had to drink, that's all. I thought I was clear to drive, clearly I wasn't."

"They just lowered the limit," he offered.

She met his gaze, her shoulder rising. "I know."

He sighed and turned away, moving to the window. He was about to close the curtain a little to diffuse the harsh light and spare Sara the glare when he was sure he saw Brass's car crawl past in the street below. Brass had mentioned tension over the lead CSI job; could this be the cause of Sara's despair? He took in a deep breath, and pulled the curtain half shut, asking softly, tentatively as he turned back toward her, "And there isn't…anything else troubling you?"

She pursed her mouth thoughtfully and gave a slow shake of the head. "Nope," she said, glibly.

"I mean…is this about the promotion?" he asked more forthrightly, determined to get to the bottom of what was eating her up. "The fact that I recommended Nick over you? You know it got cut, right?"

She crossed her arms over her chest, typical defensive gesture he thought, and he knew he'd hit a raw spot. "No, Grissom," she said, her voice rising as she briefly met his eye, "This isn't about the damn promotion! This is about you! This is about…" she took a deep, shuddering breath and whipped herself away.

He took a cautious step toward her, his hand reaching out to her, stopping when he saw the slight tremor of her shoulders, the way that they rose and fell as she fought to catch her breath and keep her composure. He was handling this all wrong, he knew that, but acting like the insensitive supervisor came so easily to him and was so much safer than trying to be her friend. He didn't know how to do that, not anymore. Too much had happened between them.

"This is how we're going to play it," he said quietly, eager to bring the conversation back onto safer grounds and reassure her that she wouldn't be losing her job over it. "No one needs to know about what's happened; I know Brass won't say anything."

She slowly rotated toward him, watching him expectantly.

"You got tonight off anyway," he went on, "so…let's say that from tomorrow night you're on a two-week vacation."

Her eyes widened with disbelief. "You're suspending me?"

"No, Sara," he denied, bewildered. "I'm not suspending you. You're taking a vacation. God knows you've got enough on the book."

Her smile was almost scornful, but very resigned and sad too. "Do I have a choice?"

His shoulder lifted and he shook his head. "You need time, Sara. You need time to…regroup."

She gave a low empty scoff. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"What?" he exclaimed with disbelief. He could feel his pulse rising. "No, Sara, I'm not enjoying this. This…" he said with a wave of his hand back and forth between them, "is making me feel wretched. I feel sick, Sara, sick with worry for you. You're one of the most talented criminologist I've ever met, and if you carry on like this you―"

"You know what, Grissom? Don't bother." Her shoulder lifted. "I've heard it all before, from Brass." She forced a smile. "I'll take the two weeks. I'll even go to the…mandatory PEAP counselling you haven't yet brought up. I-I'll do what it takes. I made a mistake, but it won't happen again."

"I know," he said, and surprised she stopped talking. "I know it won't happen again." The fight seemed to leave her suddenly, and he took a step toward her. "What happened, Sara?"

"I told you. I needed to―"

"No. I mean, between you and me. We were friends once," he said, holding her gaze, his voice soft, reflective.

His eyes lowered at the pain and heartbreak that crossed her features. He saw something else in her eyes, something he was finding harder and harder to ignore, and it terrified him. He saw longing. Longing and love. Emotions he felt, but couldn't return, wouldn't allow himself to. Trembling Sara picked up a cushion and clutching it tightly to her stomach slumped into the armchair.

In the small kitchen he opened cupboards and drawers until he found what he needed to make them a hot drink. They both needed it. He'd get the alcohol out of her, and then he'd leave. He'd said all he came up for. When he finished, he joined her in the lounge, setting her cup down on the table in front of her before taking a seat in the middle of the couch. His eyes on her he took tentative sips of his tea, relieved when after a few minutes she reached for her cup and did the same.

"Sara, honey, please, talk to me," he said without thinking.

Sara stood up, setting her cup down on the table with so much force that he startled. Before he knew it she was at the door, her hand on the handle, opening it. "Go, please," she said, looking at the floor, her voice a fraught whisper. She looked up, briefly meeting his gaze. Tears stood in her eyes, poised. "Please," she said again, her chin trembling as her eyes once again averted down, "Go."

He pushed to his feet, walking over to her, and placed his hand over hers on the handle. She snatched her hand away from under his, crossing her arms over her chest, and he closed the door.

"What do you want from me?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said, and shrugged. "I don't know. All I know is that…I hurt to see you like this. And I don't know how to fix it."

She gave a sad smile. "You can't _fix_ this," she said her voice barely above a whisper, and looked away. Then she walked to a door behind him that he hadn't noticed was there and opened it. Glancing over at him she said, "Just make sure the latch is on before you go." Then quickly she disappeared, closing the door after her.

He stood rooted to the spot, his eyes on the closed door, for a very long time. The silence all around him was stifling, permeating, but he couldn't leave. He couldn't leave her. Outside in the corridor he heard voices approaching, followed by laughter, gradually retreating, then silence. He moved over to the bookshelf, and was running his finger over the worn spines of an eclectic collection of books when he heard the sound of the shower running. His finger stopped on an all too familiar book, and he pulled it out, feeling over the old-fashioned etched cover. _The Science of Entomology_, he read, and sighed.

He removed his jacket and sat down on his spot on the couch with the book, and waited. For what, he still wasn't sure. All he knew was that he couldn't leave her alone with her wretchedness. After a while, the water stopped running. He heard her move about next door, and then silence fell in the apartment again. He must have lain down and fallen asleep, because when he next woke, sitting up with a start and a crick in his neck, it was almost three pm. He frowned, picking up the comforter that had slid off his body. Slowly understanding dawned and his eyes flew to the bedroom door, his heart heavy with love and longing, and regret.

He would leave now, but before he rinsed the two cups and poured them both tall glasses of tap water. He drank his quickly, thirstily, and took hers to her bedside for when she'd wake. She wasn't so drunk as to be sick, he thought, but she needed to keep hydrated. Gently, he knocked on her door, letting himself in when he heard no reply. Quietly he padded into the room, his eyes intent on her sleeping form. She lay on her side, on the right side of the bed, turned away from the door toward the window. The sheets had ridden down, uncovering her shoulders, and he stood there, awkward with the glass in his hand, yet unable to take his eyes off her.

He watched her until his ache became so unbearable that he had to leave. The curve of her neck, the angular shape of her jaw, the softness of her chin, her mouth, her nose and almond-shaped eyes, he watched it all, for how long he didn't know but he needed to commit it to memory because he knew a moment like this would never happen again. He walked around the bed, noiselessly putting the glass down next to an empty one on the bedside table.

"I was there, Grissom."

Her words were so soft, her voice almost dreamlike to him, that he wasn't sure she had spoken at all. He looked down at her, but her eyes were closed. She didn't move. He paused then sat at the edge of the bed, near the top of her legs, his eyes steadfast on the floor between his feet and that was when he realised he wasn't wearing his shoes anymore.

"I saw you. I watched you," she went on quietly, her voice devoid of emotion, "I heard what you said."

His eyes closed wearily as he finally understood what she was talking about.

"When I saw her, when I saw Debbie in the morgue, it was like staring at my reflection in a mirror."

His eyes scrunched tighter shut at the surge of memories, at the images her words conjured, at the still raw pain that gnawed at his heart. He swallowed. "I kept thinking…what if it was you there, and not her? What if it was Sara? And I just couldn't...I couldn't―" he let out a long breath, his words trailing as, overwhelmed, he lapsed into silence. "I'm sorry," he said at last, his words a mere whisper through his lips. "I just…don't know what to do about it. What to do about us."

"There is no _us_, Grissom, and it's for the best."

The tremor and resignation in her voice broke his heart but she was right, there was no them and it was for the best. There were just too many obstacles in the way. Slowly his eyes reopened, staring at his stocking feet. He turned his head toward her, and watched her profile face in the darkness. Her eyes were screwed shut, her eyelids flickering, and he could see moisture shining in their corners. She was hurting, and all because of him. His hand lifted, finding hers near her face. He slid his fingers in her hand, wrapping them tightly around hers.

"Can you…leave now?" she said. "Please?"

"No," he almost said, "No, I can't leave now," but he couldn't get the words out.

Instead, powerless to make her pain go away, he gave her hand a squeeze and his head a nod. "I'll call," he said, and he did, the very next day, and then every other day during her time off, not to check up on her as she accused him of doing, but to make sure she had support. At that moment in time, he wowed to do everything in his power to be a friend to her again.

They had been friends first, and with all that had happened in the intervening years he lost sight of that.


End file.
